The Faded Chronicle
The vines were already climbing the north wall by the time the magistrate’s clerk arrived to read the summons. You stood in the center of your cell, the stone floor cold against the soles of your boots, and watched the green tendrils tighten their grip on the masonry. They were thin, pale things, like the veins of a corpse exposed to winter air, but they moved with a slow, deliberate purpose...
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